


Rare and Sweet as Cherry Wine

by Magpiie



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mild Blood, Mild S&M, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 04:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19265629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpiie/pseuds/Magpiie
Summary: Laura's undead, travelling America with a leprechaun, meeting gods and mythical figures. Somehow, she's bored with that. Sweeney picks a fight, and things get heated. It's pretty much pwp, what can I say?





	Rare and Sweet as Cherry Wine

Despite her protests, somehow they have fallen into the same routine every goddamn night. They check into whatever rooms they can get in whatever shitty motel they find, then Sweeney takes it upon himself to find the nearest ugly dive bar and consume as much of their liquor as possible. Laura could stay at the motel, she supposes, but then who would carry his drunken ass home when the bar closes - or, more often than not, when he’s about to try to fight five guys at a time? Plus, there’s no fun sitting on a dirty bed watching reruns of Jeopardy for fifty nights in a row. Maybe she can’t drink, but at least she can watch people. Enjoy the music.

At least she’s not alone.

The guy in the corner with a guitar plays the familiar opening chords of a song they’ve heard at possibly every single bar they’ve been to and, like clockwork, she sees the muscles in Sweeney’s jaw tightening. She can already hear the rant coming, could probably recite it on stage at this point.  
"Fucking Galway Girl," he begins, but she just can’t listen to this rant. Not again. Maybe this really is worse than watching Jeopardy.  
"I’m sick of this," she says loudly. He falls silent, but his gaze settles on his empty glass instead of on her. He’s about to order another, she can tell, but she slams his hand back down to the bar and holds it there. "Of sitting around watching you drink. Every. Night."  
"I have to find some way to make spending time with you bearable," he slurs, straightening up to his full height before finally looking at her. "Besides, I don’t recall inviting you."  
"What else should I do? If I wasn’t here to babysit you -"  
"Babysit me?!"  
" - then we’d never get anywhere!" He laughs humourlessly. "It’s like you’re actually trying to hold us back. What, are you so scared of seeing Wednesday again you have to get shit-faced every night?"  
"I’m only on this delightful fucking road trip to help you, dead wife!" He’s half-shouting now, and the bartender is watching them, but she just can’t bring herself to care. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this argument in public. She just can’t help picking at it, like a scab that she won’t let heal. Hey, we’ve all gotta get our kicks somewhere.  
"Help me?! I’ve dragged your ass halfway around the country so you can get your fucking coin back, and-"  
"You know what? I’m tired of this too. I’m tired of having this same conversation with you. About how I’m so selfish, how much you hate me, and most of all I’m sick of listening to fucking Galway Girl." He moves before she can react, turning to throw the glass in his hand. It explodes against the wall next to the singer’s head and suddenly all eyes are on them, and the bartender is opening his mouth to tell them to leave. She waves him off, throws whatever change she can dig out of her pocket onto the bar, then pulls Sweeney’s arms behind his back and drags him to the bar. He’s squirming and shouting the entire time, the usual spiel about learning new songs and the bastardisation of Irish culture and anything else that happens to spring to mind

By the time they’re outside he’s devolved into old Gaelic and aimless swearing, but he stops struggling against her so she lets him go. Usually, by this point in the night, he’s burned out his misplaced anger and resigns himself to the journey home, where he’s quiet while Laura tells him what an idiot he is, but tonight is different. He’s still twitching with nervous energy, expression taut with frustration, still opening and closing his mouth to argue with someone about something but not finding the words.  
"What is wrong with you?" she finally says, arms folded, regarding him with a tired bemusement. He’s stalking furiously back and forth, shaking his head, kicking at the dirt of the parking lot. "It’s a guy in a bar playing for tips. Do you really have to be an asshole every single night?" His expression twists, he shakes his head and then he turns his glare to her. She scoffs. "Oh, was it my fault? Was I mean to you?"  
"Cunt," he mutters back, deliberately, practically spitting the word at her, and like an involuntary reflex she closes the distance between them and connects her fist with his jaw. He falls back against the hood of a car, pushes against it to stagger back to standing, spits blood. "Come on," he challenges, lifting his chin to face her once more, swaying a little. "Hit me again. Go on, do it." She obliges, this time connecting with his cheekbone in a way that makes his legs crumple underneath him. Laura watches, brow furrowed, as he pulls himself to his knees. He’s panting, and his denim jacket is hanging off one shoulder, and there’s bright red oozing from his lip where she split it open. Some terrible part of her loves it: he’s tall and strong and over-confident, and once he was a warrior, a god. Now he’s a disheveled mess, kneeling before her, an ugly bruise already forming on his handsome face. His eyes are dark.  
"Again," he says thickly, blood dripping from his lip, and she wonders what’s turned him into such a glutton for punishment. She takes a few steps forward until they’re almost touching, so that he has to crane his neck to look up at her, then threads threads her fingers through his hair. For a moment, she thinks his expression has softened just a little. That’s when she balls her hand into a fist and wrenches his head back. He winces, doesn’t say anything.  
"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Me humiliating you? Is this what gets your dick hard?" she asks, words dripping with disgust, and he closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath. When she moves her leg between his, pressing uncomfortably into his groin, she can feel that she’s right. He ruts almost imperceptibly against her and curses himself under his breath. As hollow and dead as her body is, she can feel her breathing pick up and an ache between her legs. "How pathetic," she mutters as she lets him go, though honestly she’s not sure which of them she’s talking about anymore. "Stand up." He does as she says, slow and unsteady, and she grabs him too hard around the wrist.

This is how she half-drags him back to his motel room, where she shoves him in ahead of her and slams the door behind her. He stumbles to the ground, twists to sit against the side of the bed, huffs like a kicked puppy. "Is that what all this was about?" she asks mockingly, striding towards him and kneeling between his legs. "You try to start a bar fight because you’re horny? What are you, 16? Just had your first beer?" He’s glaring into her eyes with a delicious fury and opens his mouth to say something shitty, but before he can speak her hand is on his throat, grip just firm enough to threaten. And with all the hatred and drunken misery he can muster, he leans forward into her choking embrace to kiss her with bruised and bloody lips. 

Laura moves her hands to his shoulders, pushes him hard against the bed as she kisses him back, nipping at his sensitive lips. She’s trying to hold her desperation back but he’s lost of all sense of bravado, twisting enthusiastically in her grip to shrug off his jacket and reaching between them to unbuckle his belt. As soon as he’s done she pushes his hands away, kissing him harder as she tugs the leather free of its belt loops. Sweeney’s mouth tastes of whiskey and cigarettes, and he’s gasping and panting between kisses, too far gone with lust and alcohol to pay much attention to what she’s actually doing, gently shifting his hands away from her until they’re above his head. 

There’s a hiss of discomfort when she pulls his belt tight around his wrists, and he grunts when she pulls him up to hook his restraints onto the corner of the bed frame. With him all hot and stupid and vulnerable underneath her, Laura leans back to admire the scene. His shoulders are wrenched back in a position that looks painful, but pulls the muscles in his arms beautifully taut. There’s blood smeared across his chin now, starting to tangle in his beard. His expression is frustrated, like even now he’s fighting the urge to argue with her, but his eyes are hooded with desire. Her gaze roams over him like a predator considering its prey and the slightest flicker of apprehension crosses over him. She wonders how helpless he feels, wonders whether he’s getting off on it, and smirks. Is this how Delilah felt, she wonders, with her scissors at Samson's hair? 

"Is this what had you all hot and bothered? Have you fantasised about this?" Laura’s never considered herself a bully, never enjoyed deliberately taunting people just to hurt them, but something about seeing Sweeney like this makes her want to see how far she can push him. She tilts her head to one side. "Do you ever jack off, thinking about me beating the shit out of you?"  
He keeps his gaze level on her, swallows, tries his best to shrug.   
"Yes," he answers coolly. She hesitates, refusing to show her surprise, and then crawls back towards him. With a sharp, sudden movement she tears his thin cotton tank top down the middle. She wants to see him. If she’s being honest, she’s spent a lot of time thinking about him too - not exactly like this, certainly not to get herself off. That doesn't work anymore, she’s tried enough to be absolutely certain. But was she curious about him? Sure. Enough to be a little defensive about it. 

She raises a hand to trace her fingertips around the outlines of his exposed muscles, then glances up at his face. Of course, he’s smirking down at her. When she slaps him, the sound echoes around the room, and he lets out a strangled noise somewhere between pain and delight.  
"Fuck," he breathes, and she moves her hands to his jeans, unfastening them and pulling them down just enough to palm his hot erection through his underwear. "Fuck," he repeats, bucking up into her hand. Getting impatient, she pulls his jeans and boxers down to his knees and he struggles uselessly against his bindings. Then her cool hand is wrapped around his thick cock, jerking him roughly, and he lets his head fall back as far as he can in his awkward position. She watches his eyes flutter closed, enjoys his shameless groans of pleasure, feels him twitch under her touch. Despite herself, she’s jealous. She wants to feel this moment the way he does, wants to feel as alive as she’s making him feel. For just a moment in this miserable half-life she’s been living, she wishes they could just hate fuck like normal people. 

"You’re mine," she breathes out, hardly thinking, and he opens his eyes just a fraction to watch her. Her free hand finds the soft flesh of his inner thigh and he hisses as her nails dig into his skin to form bloody half-moons. "You’re mine. You’d do anything for me, you’d fucking kill anyone just for me to touch you." For a second she panics at her own incoherent babbling, but then his hips jerk and he whines and she’s climbing on top of him to pepper kisses under his jaw.  
"Fuck you," he mutters, but he groans and his back arches when she bites hard into the flesh at his neck. She continues, breathless.  
"You’re meant to be a king, but you would beg for me. You’d beg for just a second of my lips around your dick." His breathing is getting ragged as she speeds up. "You’re not a god, you’re a whore. You’re my whore. You do what I tell you to do, go where I tell you to go. And you cum when I tell you to cum." Her hand suddenly stills and his furious gaze flies to hers. He doesn’t look drunk any more. She realises she’s shaking, but can’t place why. He tries to buck against her, growls, curses under his breath. "Say it. Say you’re mine." Her voice is still hard, even, but it’s barely above a whisper. He watches her unsteadily for a moment, expression petulant. "Say it," she demands again, louder.  
"Do I have to say it?" he asks, gaze fiery, chest rising and falling with every laboured breath. "Fucking, look at me. Laura." 

She flinches. Somehow, she’s made this too real. It was meant to be a sordid little game, and she had tried to push him to the edge, but now she was afraid of what was on the other side of it. He chokes out a laugh, picks out each word slowly as if just to speak them was an enormous effort.  
"I am. Yours. That’s my dumb fuckin’ luck, I suppose, that I’d do anything for you." The room is so silent she swears she can almost hear her heart beat. He sighs shakily, then mutters, "Can’t believe you actually made me say it out loud. You asshole."

Then her lips are on his, gentle this time, and she finishes him slow and careful. He shudders when he comes in her hand and they stay tangled together for a moment, foreheads touching, until she stands up without a word and unbuckles the belt holding his arms back. She pauses, pretends not to watch as he slowly stretches his aching limbs, then fetches him one of the faded hand towels she finds in the bathroom.  
"You’re filthy," he finally says, after a long few minutes of silence, and grins darkly up at her. She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, but smiles just ever so slightly.  
"You’re welcome."

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw that Tumblr feed that started and thought hey, I should finally write a fic about this absolute trash pairing of two walking, talking disasters. 
> 
> This was kinda weird to write because Laura is actually my name IRL so. There's that.


End file.
